Oh to be rich…
Not just “I live in a nice house and can afford to go out to decent restaurants rich” but, ‘bugger me, I love those Louboutains, so Im going to buy a pair in every sodding colour rich”.
This weekend I went on a little sojourn to the wilds of South Kensington, where you are only deemed a human being if you carry around a small chihuahua with a diamond encrusted collar, while your maid walks five paces behind carrying most of the shoe department of Harvey Nicks for you in shiny new shopping bags.
I didn’t quite fit in, in my M&S leggings and my scuffed converse trainers, so I suppose it was my own fault really when I look at what happened as I foolishly wandered into the handbag department of Harrods. To be totally honest, I don’t even really do the whole handbag thing, so that particular department was just a means to an end, as I tried to find the food hall.
However, as I meandered, a bag caught my eye. Black leather, with chain embroidery dripping seductively from the sides. It was a thing of beauty, and I had the most incredible urge to run over and touch it. To lovingly caress the chains, and feel the softness of the leather; a similar feeling to that which I get when coming across someone with a small puppy….must touch it….must touch it.
I did.
I touched it.
It felt lovely.
As if I had rubbed a magic lamp, a sales person materialised at my side immediately, trying to disguise her utter distain for my current handbag, which was of BHS origin, and obviously feeling a little intimidated itself by it’s more expensive relatives.
“Would you like to try it on?” she asked me, gesturing at the bag, and obviously knowing full well that I would just shake my head, mumble ‘no thanks’ and shuffle off in embarrassment.
She was absolutely right of course, but I still felt the need to excuse my lack of gold cards by pretending to be a rich person in disguise as a regular person, and saying “Hmmm, not at the moment thank you. Ive only just got here, and I want to see what else you have in store first.”
“Of course madam.”
Then the most stupid question ever (from me of course)… “How much is it, out of interest”
“Its £3,695 madam.”
Trying hard not to swallow my own tongue, I thanked her for her help, and walked away. Everyone says in life that you should never look back, but I foolishly turned to give one last lingering look at the bag-that-shall-never-be-mine, and I was horrified to see the sales assistant donning soft cotton gloves, and wiping it down.
I had contaminated Alexander McQueen.
With head hanging low, I wandered into the odorous fug and general bitchery of the perfume department. Possibly not the best place to catch your breath, but at least the atmosphere in there would explain away the tears in my eyes.
So, just for now, maybe I will continue visiting M&S, where the sales people don’t follow you round with dusters; and I will continue buying my bags from the High Street of Watford as opposed to Kensington. However, when I make my fortune, and can afford an Alexander McQueen bag in every sodding colour that I want, I probably wont be buying them from Harrods.
